warhammerfantasyfandomcom_es-20200214-history
El Asedio de Praag (Relato)
"More water! More water!" The cry came up from every quarter of the burning city. But there was no more water, the wells had run dry, the baths and fountains were buried as buildings collapsed in great heaps of ash and flame. Sparks and flames ran from roof to gable, and a pall of smoke obscured the stars. Those too young, too old, or too badly wounded to take their place defending the walls, desperately turned to their neighbour for some sign of hope. But all hope had gone with the last of the water. A strong wind carried the flames across the ramparts, fanning the fires and turning Pragg into a furnace. Riding that same wind came the mocking cries of the besieging Chaos army; the bestial laughter of Beastmen, the shrill giggling of Daemons, and the coarse bellow of some unimaginable monstrosity, unrestrained and heinous in its hour of triumph. From the tall lookout tower on the North Wall Ivan Talikof, Captain of the North Gate, watched his city burn. "The Silversmiths Street is almost gone now", he said, not lifting his grey eyes from the blaze below. "I'm sorry, Ivan", said Vladimir, who shared the night watch. He placed his heavy gloved hand reassuringly on Ivan's shoulder. They had been friends before the war, when Ivan was the silversmith's youngest son and Vladimir one of four apprentices. The War Against Chaos had changed everything. Ivan's brothers were dead now, Ivan's father had been crippled three years ago whilst fighting in the hills. He had no apprentices these days. "What's the use Vladimir", Ivan said weakly. He stared over the burning city, his face expressionless and empty. "They have beaten us and they know it". He watched helplessly as the line of flames leapt to the Chandlers Street and danced down Paupers Lane. "Courage my friend", Vladimir exorted gently. "Only this morning a rider from the Empire broke their lines. The word is there's an army on its way to relieve us. They'll be here tomorrow or the day after". "Tomorrow", whispered Ivan. "I've heard the rumours too. It's on everyone's lips. They say that Magnus the Pious himself is leading an Imperial army to save us from Chaos. It gives the people something to believe in. I can't believe anymore, Vladimir. It's all gone. Every drop of belief has been squeezed out of me". Vladimir said nothing. He had seen hope die inside men before. He knew that this was another sort of death, that a man can no more live without hope than he can live without a heart. He thought of people he had known when the war started, Ivan's brothers amongst them, all gone now. He thought of Ivan's father crippled and bitter, and his sister Caesia lying screaming in the madhouse. Chaos destroyed them before it finally killed them. Suddenly, a fireball exploded above the lookout tower and tiny drops of magical flame spattered onto the slate roof. Vladimir ducked down as the hot burning speckles cascaded down the sides of the slim tower. When he arose he saw that Ivan had not moved, and that a drop of fire had struck him on the cheek and left a long dark gash. Another fireball burst to their left and then, with a mighty thundercrack and sulphurous flash, the great North Gate of Pragg exploded into tiny fragments. "The gate!" cried Vladimir, as he seized the alarm bell and began to toll it with all his strength. Reinforcements hurried from their stations along the wall. The fireballs were falling thickly on the ground behind the ramparts. Already Vladimir could see casualties below. One man ran hither and thither like a living creature of fire while others chased after him, beating at the flames with their cloaks. A mighty cry came up from the enermy ranks as the forces of Chaos surged forward into the gateway. Vladimir gave up the bell and started as fast as he could for the ladder. "They are coming", he said. But Ivan was no longer there. Where the North Gate of Pragg had stood there was now only a ragged hole wreathed in smoke and swirling darkness. Part of the rampart had fallen into the gateway partially blocking it and crushing several defenders, their mangled arms and legs protruded from the rubble. Numbed by the blast and shocked by the sudden death of their comrades, the survivors moved like automatons, piling loose stones and timbers on top of the fallen masonry to close the gateway as best they could. But it was too late. From the shadows a single Beastmen leapt. It was faster than its fellows thanks to mutated and powerfully muscled legs, enabling it to spring over the rough barrier of fallen masonry whilst those behind struggled to cross. It lifted its huge goat head and let out a defiant bellow. In its powerful claw-like hands it held a heavy scimitar which it swung in a glittering arc, felling two soldiers before they had a chance to move. It's second bellow was cut short and the Beastmen suddenly folded in two. The deformed body slumped to the ground, a black-fletched arrow sticking in its thick neck. Heartened, the defenders swiftly formed a shield wall and levelled their spears to meet the inevitable onslaught. The rest of the Beastmen came all at once, scrambling over the rubble and dust, picking their way clumsily across the debris. For once the might of Chaos worked in the defenders' favour, for the destruction of the gate had brought down sufficient wreckage to seriously hamper the creature's attack. Reduced to a snail's pace by this barrier, their impetus was slowed and the full force of their attack blunted. Those of the defenders who carried bows hurried to take up positions either side of the breach, and began to pick off the Beastmen as they poured over the mound. Soon the corpses were piled several deep, and those few attackers lucky enough to scape the arrows were quickly slain by the spearmen. A black-fletched arrow found its mark and a Beastman toppled down the heap of dead. It was an specially large, bull-headed brute, with a third horn which stuck straight out from its forehead. Each spearman braced himself for the next onslaught. Every bowmen drew a fresh arrow and sought a target. But no horned heads bobbed above the pile of corpses. For a moment all fell quiet, and the defenders loosened the grip they had on their weapons. Then it came: a gathering darkness like thick oily smoke. It oozed through the gate and settled about their feet. Dark tendrils of the stuff thrashed this way and that, and where they touched against a solid surface they appeared to adhere to it. As if grasped by some titanic forces, the mound of debris and corpses was slowly pushed aside. Tiny streaks of magical energy twisted across the gateway. The defenders drew their weapons again, but there was not a man amongst them who did so without a stricken heart. Very slowly, as if heedless of danger, a dark horseman rode through the gateway and halted. The air was still thick with dark magic, and this darkness seemed to congeal around the rider as if he were absorbing it, pulling it back into himself if such a thing were possible. His armour was of black burnished iron and in his right hand he carried a mighty war sword, barbed and bright. It seemed to quiver with a malevolent life of its own. The rider craned his head slowly back and forth until his gaze fell upon the defenders. They could see that his eyes were red and glowed like coals inside the black helmet which bore the unspeakable rune marking its wearer as a Champion of Tzeentch. The Champion of Chaos began to laugh in a slow and measured fashion. The sword flew from the Champion's grasp and the heads of four of the soldiers were severed in an instant. Their bodies dropped to the ground spurting crimson blood. The dark horseman laughed louder, and the sword flew again, running through one man and impalling another stood behind him. Some men tried to parry the sword with their own weapons, or attempted to fend it off with their shields, but their arms were as the soft limbs of infants compared to the unearthly strength of that Chaos Blade. One bowman shot an arrow against the rider, only to watch his shaft turned effortlessly aside by the black armour. The hapless archer dropped his bow and ran, but he was too late to escape the black blade which cut him in two. The rest of the defenders fled. The sword glided gently back into the dark horseman's grasp. Its strange sheen seemed to vanish an its inner-life appeared to dim. The Champion sheathed the Chaos Sword, raised his head and looked slowly about him. There, stood alone, barring his path into Pragg was one man, a tall, pale man in the uniform of Captain of the Gate. One cheek was gashed and dripped with blood. The horseman gazed at him for a moment before he spoke. "Are you not afraid, Captain?" he said. His voice was light and soft, innocent and strangely compelling. It was an altogether unexpected voice coming as it did from the massive back-armoured Champion of Tzeentch. "Not anymore", replied Ivan. He was surprised to hear how coarse and vulgar his own voice sounded compared to that of the dark horseman. "Are you not afraid of death?" asked the Champion, now with a note of genuine curiosity. "Death", said Ivan. "Me afraid! I wear the pall of death for a winter cloak to warm me. The world too is under its shadow and becomes quite hot". Ivan gestured wildly as if to encompass the burning city. He raised his sword and it seemed a great weight in his hands. "Then you are mad!" exclaimed the Champion, and he seemed pleased to have solved the puzzle. "Mad", said Ivan in the same dispassioned voice. "Not unless it is madness to prefer death to abomination". He lunged forward and made to strike the Chaos Champion, but the dark horseman's horse reared away so that Ivan's blade cut empty air. Flames snorted from the horse's nostrils and its eyes too appeared to glow with hidden fury. The Chaos Champion laughed. "Fight!" screamed Ivan, "Fight you coward!" He swung his sword again and again, but as each blow fell the darl horsemen skilfully avoided it, pulling his great black charger out of the blade's path. The Chaos Champion laughed again. Ivan sank to his knees quaking with fury. The rider drew a long pale knife, ignoring the Chaos Sword that had already killed so many and which, if truth be known, was now too sated with blood to be tempted from its scabbard. As he did so another voice rang out, the harsh but refreshingly human voice of Vladimir. "Run Ivan... run", cried Vladimir as he stepped from the shadows, swinging his steel sword in a gleaming arc. He threw himself upon the horseman. This time the dark warrior did not step back, for he had been so intent upon Ivan that he had not seen Vladimir creeping up in the darkness. Vladimir's blade bounced from the burnished iron armour with a piercing screech, as if he had struck a living thing rather than inanimate metal. The black horse span around as its rider called it tighly to rein, kicking out with its great iron shod hooves and striking Vladimir upon the temple. The watchman's sword slid from its grasp, and he fell senseless to the ground. Ivan had been no less surprised by the attack than the Chaos Champion. Now he gripped his sword and leapt to his feet, calling his friend's name as he did so. "Vladimir...!" he screamed. The tears were running down his cheeks. Vladimir lay still and dark blood was seeping from his head. Ivan bounded between his friend's body and the Chaos Champion. The rider still had his long knife in his hand, and now he pointed its blade directly at Ivan. Ivan raised his own sword and prepared to fight. "Curse you Chaos fiend!" he shouted. The Champion spurred his horse. Then he checked it suddenly and pulled the unearthly creature back. "Farewell Captain", he said and threw the knife with unerring accuracy. With a heavy thump, the blade embedded itself in a broken piece of gate timber. The Champion of Chaos laughed softly and turned his horse back through the gate. "Perhaps we shall meet again", he cried, as he disappeared into the swirling darkness. --------------------- Every quarter of Praag was alight with a dozen fires and in many places the separate blazes met to form one huge conflagration. Flames leapt easily across the narrow divides between the shingle roofs, so that no sooner was one house alight than that its neighbour followed until whole streets were ablaze. Pillars of sparks climbed into the night air and fell back to kindle fresh fires in other parts of the city. Watchmen handed out thick blankets and brooms for beating the fires, others supervised the distribution of sacks of sand or pails of urine for dousing flames. Those few with fire-fighting experience carried grappling hooks and long poles to demolish burning buildings or to pull down sound constructions to create fire-breaks. "By all the Gods we need water", exclaimed Nikolai wiping the oily soot from his face. He watched as the seventh house in Silversmiths Street crashed to the ground. Broken timbers still blazed in places, but the old women and children were already smothering the flames with loose soil. He noticed that his hands were bleeding where he had pulled upon the coarse hemp ropes. "Precious little chance of that", replied Andre. Like Nikolai he was stoutly built, strong and above medium height. He too was covered with soot and grime, and his leather jack was torn where a tall leaded-glass window had fallen over him. He hoisted a heavy iron grappling hook over one shoulder and picked up a spade with the other hand. "Saddlers Row next", said Nikolai. They both looked at the sky, their eyes searching for any sign of a change in the wind that might carry sparks to fresh parts of the city. Andre nooded. Wearily they moved off towards the west leaving the locals to deal with any remnants of fire that remained. Reaching the end of Silversmiths Street they turned past the ruins of the shrine of Taal heading north along Temple Street. This area had been gutted the previous night when a barrage of magic fireballs struck the centre of the city. Amongst the rubble tiny flames of magical discharge still licked at the tumbled masonry. As they approached Saddlers Row the ruins gave way to closely packed streets with wooden walkways raised above ground level. The overhanging upper stories of the ancient buildings seemed to poise precariously above their heads, some buildings reaching so far over that they met their opposite neighbour and formed an arching roof. In normal times this was a warren of thieves and rogues, where only the very poorest and most desperate of Praag's people lived. It was one of the oldest and one of the most crowded parts of the city and one which Andre and Nikolai would have normally avoided. Tonight the street was deserted so that Nikolai and Andre marched along in eerie silence. At the end of Saddlers Row the street gave way to a small cross-roads. Here a small crowd had gathered. They were an ugly, bedraggled mob. Many of them were marked by disease or injury. Some bore the scars of the branding iron marking them as thieves, beggars and prostitutes. All over the city the townsfolk were forming groups to help fight the fires, but no-where had Nikolai seen such a sorry and hopeless band. "Ho there", called Nikolai as they approached the crowd. "Have you any buckets or brooms? Is there any sand or soil - you might have made a pile of earth at least". The people, who seemed completely unprepared in every way, remained still and silent as if stunned. The firefighters drew closer and as they did so a voice rang out from behind them. "They will not help you". Nikolai and Andre turned round to find that only ten paces behind them stood the unmistakable form of a Champion of Chaos. The champion was huge, fully a head taller than either man. Although the shadows partially hid him, the warrior's armour shone in the firelight and its reflection seemed to dance over the metal surface revealing a complex pattern of interwoven decoration whilst sparks of light glistened upon enamel details and carefully inlaid jewels. The warrior's helmet enclosed his head completely, but through the dark eye-slits a tiny glimmer seemed to sparkle with gem-like intensity. The warrior stepped forward into the full ruddy light of the blazing city. "They will not help you", he repeated, his soft voice held a faint trace of the Empire dialect as spoken by its southern nobility. The champion drew his broad-bladed sword from its jewel-encrusted scabbard. As he did so four other shapes emerged from the shadows. Two of these were beastmen, their bodies thick with dark fur and clad in well worn chain armour over stained jerkins of leather. One carried a shield upon which was painted a flaming skull and both hefted long swords glimmering with firelight. The other two might have been human once but no-more; one seemed to have an extra pair of arms but it was hard to tell as his whole body was covered with long scarlet fur; the other had the form of a man but the chitinous shell, claws and eye-stalks of a crab. The crabman shuffled forward with a strange clattering noise. With an unexpected crack Andre threw his grappling iron at the crabman, striking him between the eyes. The creature emitted a strange inhuman squeal as the hook embedded itself in its carapace. The crabman lunged forward, angrily brandishing heavy clawed arms. There was a brief gurgling scream followed by a crunching noise as it pulled Andre's head from his shoulders and threw it to the ground. Nikolai turned hastily to the crowd, hoping to find allies amongst the townsfolk of Praag - but instead he found only empty eyed and uncaring silence. The Chaos Warrior shook his helmeted head and laughed slowly. "What hope is there for you now?" said the champion. "No more than these poor folk ever had, abandoned, desperately suffering in your proud city of Praag. It was they who opened the sewer gates and let us through. You see, they have nothing to lose because disease and poverty have taken everything that ever made them human. Look into their eyes now!" Nikolai turned and suddenly realised that the crowd had somehow enveloped him as the champion spoke. They were all around him, pressing in upon him with their reeking breath and filthy rags. He tried in vain to push them away but it was no use, their hands pulled and tore at his clothes and skin, and their fists beat him to the floor next to Andre's body. Before the darkness finally took him he heard the champion's low laughter and recognised for the first and last time the hatred in the eyes of the poor of Praag. Fuente * Suplemento Realm of Chaos: The Lost and the Damned (3ª Edición). Categoría:Pendiente de traducir Categoría:Relato Guerreros del Caos Categoría:Relato Kislev